‘Owed him what?’
‘Wait. Gradually, bit by bit he began to… open up. He allowed himself to feel. Karfeld was tantalising him. We both know what that means, don’t we: to be tantalised. Karfeld’s face was everywhere, like it is now. Grinning, frowning, warning… His name kept ringing in Leo’s ears: Karfeld’s a fraud; Karfeld’s a murderer. Karfeld’s a fake.’
‘What are you talking about? Don’t be so utterly ridiculous.’
‘Leo didn’t like that any more: he didn’t like fakes any more; he wanted the truth. The male menopause: that is it. He was disgusted with himself… for what he’d failed to do, sins of omission… sins of commission. Sick of his own tricks and his own routine. We all know that feeling, don’t we? Well, Leo had it. In full measure. So he decided to get what he was owed: justice for Karfeld. He had a long memory, you see. That’s not fashionable these days, I understand. So he plotted. First to get into Registry, then to renew his contract, then to get hold of the files: the Personalities Survey… the old files, the files that were due for destruction… the old case histories in the Glory Hole. He would put the case together again, reopen the investigation…’
‘I have no idea what you are referring to. You’re sick; you are wandering and sick. I suggest you go and lie down.’ His hand moved to the telephone.
‘First of all he got the key, that was easy enough. Put that down! Leave that telephone alone!’ Bradfield’s hand hovered and fell back on to the blotter. ‘Then he started work in the Glory Hole, set up his little office, made his own files, kept minutes, corresponded… he moved in. Anything he needed from Registry, he stole. He was a thief; you said that. You should know.’ For a moment, Turner’s voice was gentle and understanding. ‘When was it you sealed off the basement? Bremen wasn’t it? A weekend? That was when he panicked. The only time. That was when he stole the trolley. I’m talking about Karfeld. Listen! About his doctorate, his military service, the wound at Stalingrad, the chemical factory-‘
‘These rumours have been going the rounds for months. Ever since Karfeld became a serious political contestant, we have heard nothing but stories of his past and each time he has successfully refuted them. There’s hardly a politician of any standing in Western Germany whom the Communists have not defamed at one time or another.’
‘Leo’s not a Communist,’ Turner said with profound weariness. ‘You told me yourself: he’s a primitive. For years he kept away from politics because he was afraid of what he might hear. I’m not talking rumours. I’m talking fact: home grown British fact. Exclusive. It’s all in our own British files, locked away in our own British basement. That’s where he got them from and not even you can bury them any more.’ There was neither triumph nor hostility to his tone. ‘The information’s in Registry now if you want to check. With the empty box. There’s some things I didn’t follow, my German’s not that good. I’ve given instructions that no one’s to touch the stuff.’ He grinned in reminiscence, and it might have been his own predicament that he recalled. ‘You bloody nearly marooned him if you did but know it. He got the trolley down there the weekend they put up the grilles and sealed off the lift. He was terrified of not being able to carry on; of being cut off from. the Glory Hole. Until then, it was child’s play. He only had to hop into the lift with his files – he could go anywhere, you see; the Personalities Survey gave him the right – and take them straight down to the basement. But you were putting an end to all that though you didn’t know it; the riot grilles queered his pitch. So he shoved everything he might need on to the trolley and waited down there the whole weekend until the workmen had done. He had to break the locks on the back staircase to get out. After that, he relied on Gaunt to invite him up to the top floor. Innocently of course. Everyone’s innocent in a manner of speaking. And I’m sorry,’ he added, quite graciously, ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you. I was wrong.’